


Dare Frame Thy Fearful Symmetry

by canis_lupus



Series: Tyger, Tyger [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, creature!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_lupus/pseuds/canis_lupus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years after the war, Voldemort's revenge came to light: His death triggered a curse that affects everyone who uses magic. Wizards are slowly beginning to take on creature characteristics, and every spell cast advances the curse for the caster.<br/>Written for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/hp_creatures/">hp_creatures</a> <a href="http://hp-creatures.livejournal.com/194188.html">2012 Halloween Fest</a>, Prompt: <a href="http://creaturefestmod.dreamwidth.org/434.html">#10</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare Frame Thy Fearful Symmetry

Why, oh why had he thought it was a good idea to ask Draco Malfoy to come to dinner, Harry asked himself the next evening. He should've asked him to go out. Neutral ground and all. Having Draco in his house, in his kitchen, would make this first date far more intimate than Harry was entirely comfortable with, and despite Kreacher's best efforts there was no way shabby old Grimmauld Place could live up to Malfoy Manor. Oh God, he had nothing to wear. He shouldn't've asked Draco Malfoy out _at all_.

Harry took a deep breath and told himself to stop being ridiculous. He was an Auror. He'd defeated a Dark Lord. He had no business having a panic attack about a _date_.

But this date was with Draco Malfoy, who managed to make Harry feel inadequate at the best of times. What had he been thinking? Right, nothing, his blood had all been occupied away from his brain.

He took another deep breath, and a step away from his wardrobe, which he'd been staring into in dismay.

Draco had known him for about ten years. He'd seen him as a runty little eleven-year old in his cousin's hand-me-downs. There was really nothing Harry could do or wear to make a worse impression than that.

With that in mind, Harry picked his newest pair of black jeans and a dark-red silk shirt Ginny had given him for Christmas last year. She'd told him it brought out his eyes, and he trusted her opinion on such matters more than his own.

He considered his dress robes for a moment, but he hated the things. If Draco wanted to date him, he could deal with the fact that Harry preferred Muggle dress.

***

Harry showered, shaved, took a look at his hair and let it do what it wanted, dressed, and considered himself ready for Draco's arrival. He took a quick tour through the house to make sure everything was reasonably in order. The bathrooms were clean, the drawing room tidy and the dinner table set. Harry thanked Kreacher, and settled down to wait for the Floo.

Draco arrived right on time, in a whoosh of green flame and a small cloud of soot. He stepped out of the fireplace as smooth and regal as he did everything.

He was magnificent in dark grey robes with a delicate hue of silver, his pale hair smooth and perfect. His eyes were guarded as he held out a bottle of wine.

Harry took it, and they regarded each other carefully for a long moment while silence stretched between them.

Then Harry realized that they were sharing another one of those moments as they stared mutely at each other, both completely unsure about what to do next, and his lips twitched as a rueful smile wanted to spread over his face. Draco's expression softened as one eyebrow arched a little, one corner of his lips curled in a small smirk. Harry really wanted to kiss him again.

“Harry,” he greeted with a tilt of his head, voice full of irony.

“Draco,” Harry retorted, reined in his urges, and stepped to the side. “Come on in. Dinner is this way.”

He led Draco down to the kitchen, where Kreacher had set out their plates across from each other at the head of the table. Draco looked around with interest.

“Somehow, this isn't how I imagined your home,” he informed Harry after they had taken their seats and lifted the covers of their bowls of gently-steaming soup.

“It's not a house I would've chosen,” Harry admitted. “But it belonged to my godfather. I inherited it when he died, and I stayed here during the war because of the wards.” He shrugged. “I've gotten used to it since then.”

“Ah. It's a Black property then? I thought the name sounded familiar.”

“Right,” Harry said as he recalled that Draco was half-Black himself.

They talked little during the rest of dinner. Harry had thought they would, because weren't first dates meant to get to know each other? But he didn't feel the need, and neither, it seemed, did Draco. The silence was comfortable.

They watched each other, though, openly. And as Harry dragged his gaze from Draco's mouth as he'd taken a bite of food back up to his eyes and saw the heat there he realized that, actually, they were flirting.

So he made sure to slowly and thoroughly suck the cream and custard off his spoon when it was time for desert, and saw Draco shift, eyes dark, and he really wanted the man's hands back on his body.

Harry dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter, rose, and marched around the table. Draco watched him come but stood as Harry leaned in for the kiss, and pulled him close. Harry's arms went around him, Draco's fingers slid into his hair, and then they were kissing again. Harry made a happy sound that started as a moan and ended as a sigh, and sidled another fraction closer.

He'd missed this. He'd missed the feel of another body, the opportunity to touch and be touched by a fellow human being. Most of his relationship with Zach Smith had been an unmitigated disaster, but the touching was why he'd put up with the prick for as long as he had.

Of course, Zach hadn't liked to kiss. He'd thought it was childish and girly. Draco, apparently, had no such compunctions. He was kissing Harry like Harry had always wanted to be kissed: Extensively and with hunger, like Harry's mouth was something he couldn't get enough of.

His hands dropped from Harry's hair to his shoulders, over his arms and down his sides to the small of his back, hot through the fabric of Harry's shirt. Harry raised his own arms to wrap them around Draco's shoulders again, anchor himself against Draco's taller frame, grab the back of his head to keep his mouth right where it was, kissing Harry. Harry wished he could feel Draco's hair, but he was wearing his gloves, and he didn't want to take the time to break the kiss and take them off. He could do that later, when he wasn't busy arching against Draco in a search for more contact, more warmth, more touch.

Draco, apparently, had similar ideas, because he pulled the back of Harry's shirt out of his trousers, and stroked his waist, his sides, the small of his back, hot bare skin against hot bare skin. Harry whimpered.

Draco groped his arse, and Harry arched his spine into the touch.

One of Draco's hands went down the back of his pants, and Harry took one hand from Draco's shoulder to pop the button and lower the zip of his trousers to give him more room to work.

Draco tore his mouth from Harry's on a strangled moan, pressed a messy kiss to the corner of his lips, then his cheek, then nuzzled into his hair, his breath panting quick and hot over Harry's ear.

“Wasn't quite what I had in mind,” he murmured.

“Nngh,” said Harry, then scraped together enough brain cells for speech. “Don't care. Don't stop.” Okay, not much speech, but there was a gorgeous, turned-on man in front of him with his hands all over Harry's body– a gorgeous, turned-on Draco Malfoy, whose perfect hair was dishevelled and whose annoyingly perfect diction was shot and whose perfect pale skin was flushed, and why weren't they kissing anymore?

With that in mind, Harry curled his fingers around Draco's chin and put his mouth back to where he could reach it and kissed him again.

Draco responded with all the passion a man could wish for, fingers digging into Harry's skin, tongue not shy at all of Harry's fangs. Harry was quite unashamedly rutting against him, but it wasn't enough.

This time, Harry was the one to break the kiss. He took a few deep breaths, while Draco watched him, eyes black with lust, one hand still down the back of Harry's underwear, tantalizing.

“Kreacher!” Harry rasped out, and the house elf popped into existence next to them. Draco's shoulders stiffened under Harry's arm. Harry ignored it. He had more important matters on his mind. “Upstairs, in my night stand. The glass bottle, could you get it for me, please?”  
“As master commands, Kreacher will obey,” the old house elf croaked while he gave Harry a look that was supremely unimpressed. He vanished, and reappeared just a moment later with the requested bottle. “Kreacher will be cleaning,” he announced before he vanished once more. “In the attic.”

Draco's eyebrow was arching when Harry looked at him again. “Did you just send your house elf for lube?” he asked, the corners of his lips curling in an incredulous smile.  
“Well, I wasn't going to _accio_ it,” Harry pointed out reasonably. “And I'm in no state to walk stairs right now.” He held the bottle out to Draco and squirmed impatiently. “Now, if you wouldn't mind getting on with it...?”

Draco's eyes darkened again with intent, his nostrils flared and he leaned down to press a short, harsh kiss to Harry's lips. “Turn around and bend over,” he told Harry, their faces not even an inch apart.

If asked yesterday, Harry probably would've said that any such sentence out of Draco Malfoy's mouth would earn the man a fist in the face. Today, he shuddered in delight and hastened to obey. He'd never noticed before, but his kitchen table, right next to him, was of a very good height to grab hold of and bend over while Draco stepped close enough that Harry could feel his body heat. Harry gripped his open trousers and his underwear in one hand and dragged them down far enough to give Draco access, and himself some relief from too-tight fabric.

One of Draco's hands settled on his hips, large and warm, the other on the table as Draco leaned over. His breath brushed Harry's neck for a moment before he pressed a kiss there, then another, then nipped at the skin, and then he pushed himself back up again.

A clink of glass, and his hands were back again. Harry moaned and dropped his forehead to the table. The last time he'd had another man's hands on his body had been with Zach, and he hadn't enjoyed it. That had been the last straw– if it wasn't for the sex, there was nothing left of the relationship. At that point, Harry had only been in it for the orgasms and whatever little snatches of physical comfort he could get for a few months.

But Draco Malfoy turned out a more considerate lover than Zacharias Smith had ever been. He wasn't precisely gentle just at the moment, but Harry was surprisingly sure that he would be, if they both weren't too impatient for pleasantries just now. As it was, Draco's touch burned somewhat despite the lubricant, but Harry didn't care and pushed back against it, hurried Draco on with his body.

Draco dropped his forehead between Harry's shoulder blades, Harry could feel the weight through his shirt, and moaned. Harry panted, bucked his hips impatiently.

“Enough,” he forced out. “Get on with it.”

Draco hesitated for a fraction of a second, Harry could feel it in his body, but then he moved, a rustle of cloth and a brush of fabric against Harry's bare skin, another clink of glass. Harry spread his legs as best he could with his trousers digging into the top of his thighs, and then Draco was there, hot and hard, and Harry winced, because maybe he wasn't _quite_ ready, but who cared?, because he was having Draco Malfoy, or Draco Malfoy was having him, and what did a little soreness in the morning matter next to that, anyway?

Draco moved, and Harry held on tightly to the edge of the table and moved with him, met him. Draco was braced over him, his harsh breath on Harry's neck and in his hair and against his shoulders, only a fraction of their bodies naked against each other, but it was the important fraction as far as Harry was concerned, intimate and searing hot and primal pleasure deep in his gut, between his legs.

_This isn't going to last long,_ Harry realized, but he wanted more, he wanted harder, he wanted faster, and an insistent twist of his hips was all it took to communicate that to Draco, who was apparently only too happy to comply.

Harry was dimly grateful that the kitchen table was as large and sturdy as it was as he clung to the creaking wood, but then Draco reached down and around to curl his long, strong fingers around him, and Harry's world narrowed down to twin sensation of touch and pleasure, pleasure rocking through him, pleasure sharp and hot he could taste, coiling, coiling, until it expanded and raced through his veins, shook his limbs and squeezed the air from his lungs in helpless gasps.

Draco shuddered a moment later, with a moan of almost-pain. Then he slumped, head back between Harry's shoulders, his weight making the edge of the table dig into Harry's stomach. Harry couldn't bring himself to care. That living, panting weight on top of him felt far too good.

He closed his eyes for long moments, forehead resting on the table, before he turned his head and pressed his flushed cheek against the cool wood.

“You're welcome to stay the night,” he told Draco hesitantly.

He felt Draco's body tense above him.

“Thank you, but... not tonight. Maybe another time.” Draco's tone was careful, and when Harry turned his head far enough to look up at him, he saw something like regret in Draco's eyes.

He couldn't help a sigh of disappointment, but nodded against the table as his eyes slid closed again in post-orgasmic lethargy. “As you wish.”

Draco didn't reply, but his weight settled more solidly on Harry once more when he leaned down to kiss the back of Harry's neck again, lingering and gentle.

***

Eventually, Harry couldn't ignore the discomfort of half-lying on a kitchen table with edges digging into his abdomen any more.

He stirred, and Draco took the hint and levered himself off. Harry turned around and tugged his pants and trousers up while he was at it. Draco wasn't far away at all, buttoning his own robes while his eyes were on Harry's hands as Harry settled himself and zipped up. Draco's eyes darted up to meet his, and Harry saw apprehension in them. So he reached up and pulled Draco's head down again for a kiss– a long and leisurely one.

Draco's arms were around him when he pulled back again, and Draco rested the side of his face against Harry's temple.

“I really did not plan on that,” he murmured, lips close to Harry's ear.

“Mm,” said Harry, enjoying the physical contact and Draco's scent, that cool, sweet note that must be his aftershave or something, now with a tang of sweat and sex. “Neither did I,” he pointed out after a moment of hugging Draco. “But I'm not complaining.” He pressed his head against Draco's shoulder, tucked his face against Draco's neck. “Are you sure you don't want to stay?”

Draco's arms tightened around him a little, and Harry felt something happy squirm in his belly.

“I'm sure,” Draco said quietly. “Not... quite yet, okay?”

Harry just nodded, the fabric of Draco's robes soft and expensive against his cheek.

***

Draco left after two glasses of wine and plenty of kisses, and while Harry was sad to see him go, he was still in a much better mood than he had been lately as he went to bed. Of course, that could be the sex. But it could also be because he was excited as he hadn't been in a long while.

He saw Draco again on Wednesday in group, and his heart picked up when his eyes landed on Draco's tall form, broad shoulders and pale hair and an eyebrow raised at him in greeting, a half-smile sent his way that Harry was giddily certain was all for him. He made straight for Draco, took the seat next to him, enjoyed the fact that they only had to exchange a look to communicate. They'd exchanged a couple of owls for the last few days, but it was good to see him again, and Harry breathed in Draco's scent and watched his straight, prim posture, the fall of his hair and the haughty line of his profile, and fought the urge to lean against him, or take his hand, or pull him into a kiss.

He was falling hard and fast for this man, Harry realized, which after one date was frankly ridiculous.

Of course, it wasn't just one date. It was six years of fighting in school, and seeing a shaking teenager in front of a court out for blood, and more than three months' worth of weekly meetings and weekend classes and working together. They'd known each other for a long time.

And right now there were difficult times ahead and yet Harry couldn't help but feel a certain optimism. They had the Curse to deal with, but that wasn't actively killing anyone. Yes, he had been to the site of three suicides since the news hit that the Curse wouldn't be broken soon, that their children were affected as well, that things wouldn't just go back to normal. But there was this, group, their little circle of people working so hard to find ways to live with this. There was Ron, who had never hidden his Change, and there was Hermione, who would never give up, and there was even Draco, who might not be willing to so much as share his Change yet, but who was still here, who was still learning to do things the Muggle way, their first pure-blood group member.

No, Harry wasn't comfortable with his Change. But small steps counted, and so he reached up to pull off his sunglasses, tucked them into his t-shirt collar, and decided that Hermione wouldn't need to pester him any further to go to her Halloween ball. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, and his presence would make a difference in the mind of the public, and it was time he used that, however uncomfortable it made him feel.

***

He saw Draco as often as his work allowed over the next few weeks. Of course, there was group on Wednesday evenings, but their weekend classes were on hold as the preparations for the Halloween ball took precedence. Harry didn't have much to do with those. All a delighted Hermione required of him was to show up, preferably well-dressed. She was, of course, neck-deep involved in writing adds for the papers and organising a venue, and caterers and whatever else the short-notice planning of a Halloween ball entailed– Harry wasn't quite sure.

He was just as glad to be left out of it, as that meant he had more time to date Draco. They met for coffee or dinner in Muggle London, to keep it out of the papers, and one Saturday when it was a crisp bright autumn day, they went for a walk in the park, with fire-coloured leaves burning against the blue sky and swirling around their feet. The air smelled rich, of damp soil and the first bite of winter. Harry shivered a little in a particularly fierce gust of wind and Draco slung a careful arm around his waist, pulled him a little into his side. Harry smiled at him and cuddled closer, ignored the scandalized looks of an elderly couple passing them in the opposite direction.

Dating Draco Malfoy was unexpectedly wonderful. It was as if they had burned out all their conflict in their younger years, and now they rarely had a reason to get upset with each other– after all, compared to the fights they'd had, a little disagreement over whether or not Harry could pay for his own damn dinner didn't really matter all that much.

And there was the sex, of course. Draco refused to talk about his Change, refused to tell Harry what it was, and he wasn't willing to undress, either. That didn't mean he wasn't happy to get off with Harry, and while they hadn't repeated full-blown intercourse so far, they explored plenty of other options.

It wasn't perfect, but while the rest of the Wizarding world struggled with the dawning certainty that the Curse would be with them for a long time, Harry was cautiously happy.

***

Of course, their dating couldn't stay his and Draco's little secret forever. Not that they had intended it that way, but Harry hadn't gone out of his way to inform the only people he felt actually had a right to such information about his private life: Ron and Hermione.

However, both of them were far from stupid, and maybe Harry was being a tiny bit obvious about how smitten he was with Draco. In any case, Ron pulled him aside after group a week before the Halloween ball, put his sizeable bulk between Harry and the rest of the room.

“Hey, mate, what's going on between you and Malfoy these days, anyway?” he asked, curious.

“Um...” Harry said, and felt himself blush.

Ron blinked, then his eyes widened. “No!” he exclaimed. “No way! You're having me on! You're kidding!”

Harry pulled a face at his best friend. “I haven't even _said_ anything, Ron.”

Ron snorted. “As if you need to, with your face that red. But, really, _Malfoy_?”

“He's different, now!” Harry protested.

Ron just shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. Not a complete git anymore, I guess.” He tilted his head, and gave Harry one of those sharp, discerning looks he always pulled out at the most inconvenient of times. His chess-player look, as Harry thought of it. “Don't get me wrong,” Ron continued more quietly, “I'm glad if you've found someone again. You spend too much time alone these days, and I know you well enough to know that you don't actually like being alone.” Ron's raised eyebrows dared Harry to contradict him. Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it again. What was the point? Ron had been his best friend since childhood– he did know him that well. Ron nodded at Harry's silence, and then a grin curled his mouth again. “I'll never get your taste in men, though,” he teased. “Blond and prattish, is that it?”

Harry pouted at him. “I'll have you know that Draco is a vast improvement over Zach. He's a gentleman.” 'Well, except for when he bends me over a kitchen table,' Harry couldn't help but amend in his thoughts while Ron's eyebrows rose sceptically.

“Yeah? So how long have you let him bugger you?” Ron's tone was blasé and his eyes danced with mischief to do George proud.

Harry choked on air and spluttered. “Wha...? How...? _Ron!_ ”

Ron, the bastard, just laughed, heartily.

“Aw, c'mon, mate, we've gotten drunk together enough that, yeah, I know how you like it.”

“I thought you didn't remember that.” Harry was blushing again, the tips of his ears hot.

“Meh.” Ron waved a hand. “Not in detail, but enough. So, how long?”

Harry glared at him. “Just over two weeks, okay? And so far, only once, not that it's any of your business.”

Ron gave him a smile that was scarily indulgent.

“Yeah, okay. But you know you can come and talk to me about anything, right?”

Harry looked at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes even while his heart lifted with gratitude. “Yeah, I know that. Git.” He punched Ron in the arm, none too gently, to make sure he didn't start hugging him in an entirely unmanly display of emotion that would leave them both uncomfortable.

“Ow!” Ron complained. “Git, yourself. So... Malfoy make you happy?”

Harry scowled at him, because now he was uncomfortable, after all. But in the face of Ron's expectant sincerity, he had to smile a little.

“Yeah, he does. So far.”

Ron chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Who'd'a thought, huh? You and Malfoy.” He shook his head, wondering, then looked at Harry again. “So, is he coming to the ball with you? That'd give the reporters a right fit.” He chuckled again. “Can you imagine the headlines?”

Harry shuddered dramatically. He could. “No, he's not coming. He's not ready to show everyone his Change.”

“But you know what it is, right?” Ron asked, and Harry was forced to shake his head.

“But I thought... You said 'once'...”

Harry blushed, again. “There was very little undressing involved, okay? And that's as much detail as you get.”

“That's as much detail as I want, mate, thanks all the same. But he's making you go to the ball alone? That's not very gentlemanly of him.”

“He's not making me do anything, Ron. It's not like I actually asked him to the ball or anything.” They hadn't talked about the ball at all, so far, actually. Harry frowned a little. “It's not like I _need_ someone to go with me. I'm perfectly capable of going to a stupid ball alone.”

“But you'd _like_ someone to go with you,” Ron pointed out. “Seeing how you don't like these sorts of things.”

“Well, you and Hermione'll be there, and plenty of people from group. It's not like it's one of those where I don't know anyone.”

“'S not the same, though.”

It wasn't, Ron was right, and Harry suddenly realized he _would_ like it if Draco went with him. It would make the prospect of the evening a lot more appealing. Sure, it would also kick loose the mother of all shit storms in the press, but Harry had long since realized that he couldn't let fear of the tabloids rule his private life. He would avoid some of the grief they gave him when it was convenient, such as meeting Draco for coffee in Starbucks instead of Florean Fortescue's, but those were minor adjustments.

Harry also realized that he did need to talk to Draco about the whole notoriety thing soon. If they stayed together for much longer, some enterprising reporter was sure to catch a clue and Harry would rather know about Draco's expectations in the matter before that happened.

***

The next Saturday, a week before the Halloween ball, Harry had Draco sprawled across a chaise longue in Draco's drawing room at Malfoy Manor, and Draco was making the most delicious noises as he came with Harry's mouth on him. Truth be told, Harry liked giving head, even if Zach had liked to poke more-or-less good-natured fun at him for it– not that that had kept him from enjoying it when Harry went down on him. Draco was proving a far more grateful subject, though, and there was something delightfully wicked in reducing him to moans and gasps in his own fancy living room that was all brocade upholstery and fur rugs and velvet curtains over high, narrow windows.

Draco gently pushed Harry away so he could sit up again once he'd caught his breath, and Harry allowed himself to slide to the floor, legs curled under him on the thick, white rug. The chaise was low enough that he could easily rest his folded arms across Draco's lap when Draco returned his feet to the floor and put his robes back in order. Harry pillowed his head on his arms, and Draco's hand slid into his hair, cupped his skull for a moment before he started to brush Harry's fringe out of his eyes. Harry hummed, and relaxed against the chaise cushion and Draco's legs. A log popped in the fireplace, and the rain pattered against the high windows.

“I'll want to sleep with you at some point, you know,” Harry said quietly as Draco's fingers began to massage the crown of his head, and he looked up to see an eyebrow arched his way. “I actually mean _sleep_ ,” Harry shot back at Draco's unspoken but very plain comment. Then he sighed and softened his tone. “I want to spend the night with you, Draco.”

Draco answered with his own sigh and brushed his hand through Harry's hair, down to rub his thumb over the back of Harry's neck. “I...” He cleared his throat. “Not tonight, okay?”

Harry huffed, and dug his chin into Draco's thigh a little, uncharitably pleased when Draco flinched. “When, though?” he asked, then turned so he could look up at Draco, legs pressed against the chaise, hands gripping Draco's legs for balance. “I _know_ you're hiding a Change, Draco. How bad can it be?”

Draco's mouth went tight, his eyes narrow, and then he looked away again, expression mulish.

“You can't hide it forever,” Harry pointed out, then bit his lip. “Not if you want this relationship to go anywhere,” he added softly.

Draco's eyes shot back to his, and there was pain there, and Harry instantly felt bad for pushing this.

He felt even worse when Draco brushed his knuckles down his cheek, slow and tender and full of longing.

“I know,” he said, voice not quite even, then his eyes slid away again from Harry's. “I... Just...”

Harry sighed again, and leaned his full weight into Draco's legs, tightened his fingers on Draco's thighs. “'S okay.”

Draco's fingers returned to his hair, rubbing, stroking, petting, and they sat in silence for a long while, listening to the rain.

***

“Will you come to the ball with me?” Harry finally asked into the quiet.

“If I'm not willing to show _you_ , what makes you think I'm willing to show the rest of the world?”

Harry shook his head. “You don't need to show anyone. You could just go like this.” He waved a hand at Draco.

“The entire idea of the ball is to show off our Change,” Draco pointed out.

“Yeah, sure, but Hermione'll hardly tear your clothes off if you show up like normal. And she won't kick you out of the ballroom, either. You're far too valuable an ally for that. And you won't be the only one not showing their Change. Sure, those of us from group are strongly encouraged to do it, but she's invited tons of people, from the Ministry, from school, from other charities... Most of them won't be showing it.”

“Tons of people, hm?” Draco asked quietly, his fingers trailing through Harry's fringe again.

Harry looked up at him.

“Yeah. Do you want to keep this a secret?”

Draco sighed, shifted his weight a little. He leaned back, winced, and sat up straight again, shifting his shoulders. “Frankly, I haven't thought much about it.” He looked down at Harry, smiled wryly. “Believe it or not, I jumped into this like a Gryffindor, with neither plan nor reason.”

Harry laughed a little, then rubbed the side of his face against Draco's leg. “I'm glad you did. Even if you don't want to come to the ball with me.”

Draco flicked his head, lightly. “Stubborn, aren't you?” The question was clearly rhetorical, and sounded rather fond. Draco was quiet for a long, thoughtful moment. “Very well,” he said then. “I will come to the ball with you.”

Harry lifted his head in surprise. “Really?”

“You want me to, don't you?”

“Well, yeah, but...”

“Then I'll go,” Draco said with finality, and stroked Harry's cheek with the back of his hand. “Besides, I don't have much of a reputation to preserve, anyway. I'm already a known Death Eater, and my marriage contract has been voided. I have nothing to gain by keeping this a secret, and the notion of setting the proverbial kneazle among the snidgets does appeal.” He smiled rather like a kneazle himself, feline and self-satisfied.

The smile was too much to resist, and Harry clambered to his feet to crawl into Draco's lap and kiss him fiercely.

***

“He's coming to the ball with me,” Harry told Ron smugly the next Wednesday.

Ron's eyebrows rose. “He is?”

Harry nodded, and he knew he was smiling like a fool, but he couldn't help himself. “Yep. I asked him, and he said if I wanted him to, he'd go with me.”

Ron looked at him for a moment, then chuckled and slapped him on the back hard enough to almost knock Harry off the chair he was sitting on.

“Good on you, mate! Looks like you finally managed to land yourself a decent bloke. And, yes, I'm aware that I just called Malfoy a decent bloke. He is, though, if he treats you right, and you are more smitten with that man than I've ever seen you before, it's adorable.”

Harry scowled, Ron grinned, then Harry rolled his eyes, and then he shoved Ron of his chair and laughed at his surprised face. He had the greatest best friend in the world.

***

He flooed into the Manor on Friday evening, the day before the ball, with all his dress robes in his arms. Draco had promised to help him pick a set, and Harry would just as soon not decide what to wear on his own.

So he ended up in front of a free-standing, full-length mirror in deep-green robes edged with black, and stared into his own eyes, slitted pupil and all. The thought of walking into a room full of strangers like this, dressed up and with his eyes visible, left him as apprehensive as if he were going naked.

Draco stepped up behind him, wrapped his arms around him, hands folded over Harry's stomach. He looked at Harry in the mirror, then turned his face to press a kiss into the hair above Harry's temple.

“You're gorgeous,” he told Harry softly, and Harry blinked at himself, and Draco's mirror image, in surprise and a touch of confusion.

“Everyone's going to see,” he said unhappily.

Draco kissed the same spot again, then met his eyes in the mirror once more. “You don't have to go.”

Harry sighed, deeply. “I kind of do. It was already in the papers and everything. And I promised Hermione. And... it's important.”

Draco closed his eyes and pressed his face into Harry's hair, nodded silently.

Harry stepped out of his embrace and shrugged the robes off.

“Well, that's that settled,” he announced briskly and folded the robes carefully over the back of a chair. “Let's do something more fun.”

“Oh?” Draco's eyebrow rose. “What do you have in mind?”

Harry went to stand in front of him, pulled Draco's arms around his own waist and rested his hands on Draco's shoulders. “Kiss me,” he told Draco. Draco's arms tightened around him and he dipped his head to comply.

***

They soon ended up on the chaise longue, which apparently was one of Draco's favourite pieces of furniture, with Harry's head pillowed on Draco's stomach, Draco's fingers stroking through his hair.

Harry sighed happily, and Draco chuckled.

“Have you always liked to cuddle so much, or is that the cat?” he asked, voice full of fond amusement.

Harry thought about that for a while. “I'm not sure,” he finally answered. “Maybe. I've never really had anyone to cuddle with, and I've definitely not always been this comfortable with physical contact. But I did like it, when I had it.”

Draco was silent for a moment, then asked, quietly, “Your family?”

Harry stiffened. “What about them?”

Draco's fingers trailed soothingly through his hair. “I suppose they didn't cuddle with you? Relax. You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to.”

Harry let out a breath and forced himself to sink more firmly against Draco again. The thought of the Dursleys ever touching him in an affectionate manner was enough to make him huff out a bitter laugh. “No, no, they didn't. And, no, I don't especially want to talk about it.”

“As you wish.” Draco hesitated, then continued: “Will you tell me, though? Some day?”

Harry sighed out a long breath, and listened to the sound of Draco's heartbeat for a few moments. “Yes,” he said then, slowly. “Yes, I will.”

It was a temptation to tag on a condition, a “if you will talk to me about your Change”, but that wasn't the way he wanted their relationship to be, debts and obligations. Hermione, with her usual thoroughness, had taught them a lot about constructive communication in group.

So he stayed quiet, and enjoyed Draco's touch, and told himself there was no reason to panic. Draco wouldn't demand he share anything he wasn't ready to.

“I think my sense of smell's changing,” he told Draco instead. “I keep noticing the way things smell. Especially you,” he admitted, and pushed his nose into Draco's stomach, inhaled deeply. “You smell nice.”

Draco laughed, ruffled his hair. “Why, thank you.”

Harry pushed himself up so they were more of a height, leaned against the back rest. “What if I grow a tail?” he asked, and Draco's eyebrows arched.

“A tail?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. That would be weird, right?”

Draco looked at him, then his lips curled in a smile. “It would probably be adorable.”

Harry glared, then shook his head. “Sometimes, I don't get you,” he admitted. “How can you be so accepting of my Change, but you can't even talk about your own?”

Draco looked away after a moment, an unhappy little frown between his brows. “I don't know,” he answered eventually.

“It'd be okay, you know,” Harry said and reached out to rest his hand tentatively on Draco's chest. “Whatever it is, it'd... it'd be okay.”

Draco gave him a quick, pained look, then extracted himself and rose to pace over to the windows. He pulled aside a curtain and stared at the pane of glass, darkness behind the reflection of the room.

“If it were summer, you'd have the most amazing view of the gardens from here, you know?” he told Harry.

Harry got to his own feet and walked around the chaise, but stopped several steps from Draco. “Draco...”

But Draco cut him off with a sharp gesture of one hand, the other tight in the velvet of the curtain as he kept staring into the darkness.

Then he dropped the curtain and whirled around, crossed his arms over his chest.

“You were right, last week,” he bit out, tense and full of restless energy. “If I can't show you, this will go nowhere.” He looked at Harry, eyes turbulent with emotion. “And I do want this.” He hesitated for anther moment, then raised his head, tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes. “I want you,” he said, like it was a challenge, like he was daring Harry to make something of that admission. Harry, for his part, found himself breathless with longing, only able to stare at the beautiful man before him and too scared to say the wrong thing to say anything at all.

“So,” Draco said after a long moment of silence. “Do you want to spend the night?”

Harry nodded, and reached out hesitantly, to lay his hand on Draco's arm. “Yes,” he finally said, and his voice came out a little hoarse. “Yes, I do.”

Draco's face relaxed a little, as if he had actually thought Harry would say no, and he took a step closer, hands reaching for Harry in turn. A moment later, Harry was moving, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist and hugging him fiercely, burying his face in one broad shoulder, breathing deep of Draco's scent.

“Abby!” Draco called, and Harry turned his head to see a very small house elf pop up next to them. “Please light the fire and the candles in my bedroom,” Draco told her, and she ducked a bow before disappearing again.

Draco pushed Harry away from himself a little, hands gentle on his shoulders, and gave him that half-smile he only ever had for him. “Come on, then,” he said and held a hand out for Harry to take, and then led him out of the room and up the stairs.

***

Once in Draco's bedroom, Draco let go of Harry's hand, and they stared at each other, awkwardly. Then Harry had to snicker.

“This is ridiculous,” he announced, and stepped close to kiss Draco on the cheek. Draco kissed him on the forehead in turn, then rested his head against the top of Harry's for a long moment, his breath brushing the bridge of Harry's nose. Harry felt him shaking when he put his hands on Draco's waist, a fine, tense tremor.

“It's okay,” he told Draco again. “Draco, it'll be okay.”

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's back, gripped the back of his shirt tightly.

“Promise you won't laugh,” he told Harry, voice hoarse.

“I promise,” Harry said immediately. “Whatever it is, I won't laugh.”

Draco nodded, but still didn't move to undress.

“You're in pain, aren't you?” Harry asked, softly. “It's not just proper pure-blood posture, is it? And it's not just that you like to be on top. Whatever you're doing to hide it, you're in pain.” There had been flinches during the last few weeks, and Draco never let Harry lie on top of him, or not for long. On his lap or on his stomach, yes, but not on his chest, not with Harry's weight on his upper body.

“Yes,” Draco said quietly, and pulled himself far enough away to start to undo the buttons of his robes.

Harry took half a step back and watched as the grey fabric fell open to reveal a plain white shirt underneath, then grey dress slacks. Draco shrugged out of the robes, and from the way they stayed in form Harry realized they were lightly padded across the shoulders, very discretely. Padded to hide the faint bulge over Draco's shoulders and back, Harry saw, plain now that he was only wearing a shirt.

Draco's eyes were very grey, very unsure, as he slowly, stiffly, sat down on the bed. Harry wanted to reassure him, but didn't know how, so he just nodded, and hoped his gaze conveyed how much he wanted for Draco to be free of his pain, whatever the source.

Draco undid the shirt buttons, too, and underneath it, his chest and shoulders were wrapped in bandages, tightly enough to cut into the skin at his arms, his neck, low on his ribs.

He reached for a knot on his left side, undid it with all the signs of long practise, and started to unwrap the bandages. At first, the upper layers stayed in place, fabric held together by friction, but as Draco wound more of it into a neat roll around his fingers, they unravelled, and what they had held down, tight against his back, sprang free, still tangled with white strips of fabric– wings. A pair of white wings, not large, maybe the length of Harry's arm at full span. Draco grimaced in pain as they lifted from his skin.

“Oh, god, Draco...” Harry said, voice rough, and stepped over, sank down next to Draco on the bed to help him untangle the bandages.

There were red marks on his skin where the edges of fabric and feathers had dug in, and the feathers were ruffled, some even broken from their tight confinement.

Draco set the roll of bandages down on his night stand when they were done, and then looked at Harry, cautious grey eyes and naked chest and wings flexing slightly behind him, apparently of their own accord.

Harry found his lips twitching, and hurt flashed through Draco's eyes.

“No!” Harry exclaimed, reached out to wrap his arms around Draco's shoulders, stiff underneath him. “I'm not laughing at you. Promise, I promise I'm not laughing at you.” He sat back again a little to look into Draco's wary face. “I'm not,” he assured him again. “It's just... you look like an angel, and you're one of the least angelic people I know, and it's just ironic, okay? But I'm not laughing at you.”

Draco let out a slow breath, stared into Harry's eyes.

“I look ridiculous,” he said quietly. “I look absolutely ridiculous with these things.”

Harry looked at him, ran his eyes over Draco's bare chest and his arms and shoulders and, yes, wings, and licked his lips. “No, you really don't,” he told him quietly and leaned in for a kiss.

Draco responded readily enough, but he was clearly not in the mood to take things any further just at the moment. So Harry sat back again and nodded at the bed.

“Come on, lie down.” Draco looked sceptical, so Harry stood and knelt to start undoing the laces of Draco's boots. It took him only a minute to have them open and tug them away. “Trust me,” he told Draco as he stepped out of his own trainers. “Lie down, come on.”

Draco finally did, slowly, on his stomach. Harry climbed up on the bed next to him, straddled his hips. Before Draco could protest, he settled his hands on Draco's shoulders and started to rub, kneaded the muscles firmly to try and take some of the tension and pain away. After only a minute, Draco started to relax under the massage, sank into the bedding under Harry with a sigh. His wings fluttered a little, then settled in an elegant fan, their tips brushing Harry's skin when he worked around them and under them.

Draco's breath was slow and heavy by the time Harry was done with his shoulders and rubbing along his spine in long, firm strokes. He'd turned his head sideways on the pillow, and Harry could see one eye, almost closed, just a gleam visible between heavy lashes. Lines on his face Harry had barely realized were there were smoothing out, taking some of the sharpness out of his chin and cheekbones. He was very, very beautiful, and Harry ran a careful hand up the spine of one wing. Draco shuddered under him.

“Okay?” Harry asked quietly as he smoothed one disarrayed feather carefully into place.

Draco nodded against the pillow. “It's just... no one's ever touched them.”

“They're soft,” Harry said with quiet wonder, and straightened out one of the broken shafts.

Draco made a sound that was distinctly pleasure as Harry ran his fingertips over the spread of one wing.

“Merlin,” he panted into the pillow, “I never realized they were this sensitive. Oh, that is nice.”

So Harry turned his attention to the other wing, groomed it into as much perfection as he could manage. It flexed under his fingers, stretching as Draco moaned.

“Enough,” Draco said finally, roughly, and pushed himself up. Harry scooted backwards, and Draco turned around, pushed him down on the bed with a hand to the middle of his chest and kissed him deeply.

“You are wearing far too many clothes,” he announced when he pulled back again, eyes dark, smile feral.

Harry looked along Draco's body, to the trousers he was still wearing, and smiled back. “So are you.”

Harry sat up, and Draco helped him pull his shirt over his head and his jeans and boxer shorts away, and then he undid his own trousers while Harry got comfortable on his bed and let his eyes drink in the sight of a naked Draco Malfoy.

Best of all, he wouldn't need to leave tonight, wouldn't need to sleep alone. Harry was smiling when Draco turned to him again, and Draco raised an eyebrow in question, but Harry just pulled him over, on top of himself, stretched up for a kiss.

“Uh-uh,” Draco said, and leaned back, out of reach. “Gloves off, first.”

Harry looked at his hands. “But I don't want to scratch you,” he told Draco.

Draco just shook his head. “Don't worry about it.” He did lean down to kiss Harry's cheek, then. “No hiding tonight, yes?”

Harry sighed, and nodded. “Yeah, okay, you're right. But I'm telling you, I'll probably scratch you. I forever scratch myself if I don't wear gloves.”

“I thought cats had full control over their claws,” Draco observed, and kissed Harry's jaw.

“Well, maybe cats do,” Harry grumbled. “I just keep forgetting I have them, until it hurts.”

“Well, I have a large supply of healing salve,” Draco murmured in his ear, slid one hand into Harry's hair, and kissed him until Harry had forgotten all about conversation.

Then he sat back up, pulled Harry's gloves off, first one, then the other, kissed Harry's palm, and grabbed a bottle of lube from the night stand.

His eyes were dark, and Harry arranged his legs around him, pulled a pillow from somewhere above his head and shoved it under his own hips.

Draco crouched above him so he could kiss Harry while he prepared him, and unlike the last time, he refused to hurry, no matter how much Harry squirmed.

But his skin was warm under Harry's hands, and Harry couldn't get enough of it, the feel of it against his own bare hands as he ran them over Draco's flanks and chest and back, and into the softness of the feathers, and Draco's hair, Harry couldn't stop touching Draco's hair, sleek and silky and pale and gorgeous.

He hooked a leg over Draco's hip, felt him all warm and alive and close, and it was such a wonderful sensation that he thought it could hardly get better.

It did get better, though, because this time, there was no discomfort, not even a little bit, and there was a lot more naked skin, a lot more closeness and intimacy as he moved against Draco, with Draco, who now had a hand free to run over Harry's leg and up his side as Harry wrapped his own arms around Draco, one on his shoulder above the wings and one below them, to pull them closer together, to stretch for more kisses, sloppy now because aiming was difficult when they were both moving, searching for the perfect angle, the perfect rhythm.

Draco was beautiful, beyond beautiful, skin and hair and wings all gilded by the light of the fire and the candles as it flowed over the flex of his long body and the sweep of his shoulders and the contours of his chest. His wings were twitching and dipping and shuddering with the motions of his body, a counterpoint, a natural extension, and he was _so_ beautiful, it would've taken Harry's breath away if he'd had any to spare.

“Harry,” Draco moaned, raw and with longing, dropped his head to rest it next to Harry's while his body moved with ever more urgency, and Harry shuddered, very, very close. He arched his back, and, yes, that was just right, that was perfect, and then he was shivering and clenching and falling apart. He heard Draco make a guttural sound, and felt him follow him over the edge.

Draco was lying next to him, propped up on one arm, when Harry caught his breath somewhat. Harry smiled at him, and rolled over to curl up against him. He yawned, widely, and then his eyes refused to open again and he fell straight asleep.

***

Draco looked down at Harry. With his eyes and mouth closed, his hand curled next to his face in sleep, he looked human.

Draco stroked his fingers through the wild, black hair, brushed his knuckles down Harry's cheek, touched his thumb to Harry's lips for a moment. Harry's skin was warm and dry and soft against his fingers.

He realized he couldn't imagine looking into Harry's eyes without the slitted pupil. He couldn't imagine kissing him without threading his tongue between his fangs. He couldn't imagine Harry's hands on his body human.

“Abby!” he called quietly, and pulled tomorrow's folded robes from the back of the chair. He handed them to the house elf when she popped into existence next to the bed. “I need these modified. They need openings for my wings.”

 

~~~~~~

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright  
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye  
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

_The Tyger_ William Blake


End file.
